my morning poem,,,

the wake,

The Wake, 1953

We snicked the latch where one was dead,
constrained by ancient courtesy;
the open coffin on the bed
shewed us the man we’d come to see.

We gave our greetings to the gloom;
I found a seat against the wall;
my wife was hustled to ‘the room’
where women were foregathered all.

Since turf and wick gave feeble light,
the crouching shapes seemed much the same;
with anxious ear and questing sight
I sought to join each shape and name.

Of stock and weather was the talk,
of harvests fabulously great –
the distances men used to walk –
the dangers of our pampered state.

The one would rise and say good night,
and one who stood would take his chair;
the smoking turf would flicker bright
with each fresh gust of chilly air.

The suddenly the only sound
would be of crickets at the grate;
and James would reach and hand around
tobacco on a dinner plate.

john hewitt